Jelly (Or Should I Say Jam?)
by randommuffintpk
Summary: John, after suffering from a bit of a dry spell, gladly flirts with the attractive new coroner's assistant at a crime scene. Sherlock does not take this well. At all. Based on Johnlock Plot Bunny No. 16. Features jealous!/possessive!Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, fellow Johnlockians! Here's the first chapter of my jealous!Sherlock fanfic, based on Plot Bunny No. 16. It'll only be a two-shot, and I'll post the next chapter as soon as I'm able.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John H. Watson, Sally Donovan, Greg Lestrade, and 221B Baker Street don't belong to me, and I am in no way making money through this. I'm a poor American geek. ;D**

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Hail a cab immediately every single time. It's ruddy frustrating for people like me."

"Oh, you mean for short people?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps it's my commanding air of authority that draws cabs to me. The drivers assume I'm important-correctly, of course." He missed John rolling his eyes as they climbed into the waiting taxi.

The flurry of activity surrounding the crime scene was standard, Sherlock sweeping past the officers and their patrol cars, signature Belstaff swishing in his wake, as John took large steps to keep up with the impatient consulting detective. And impatient he was; Lestrade had warned over the phone that this crime and the victim that resulted from it were particularly gruesome. Naturally, Sherlock was quite excited.

Their progress was halted at the front door of the victim's flat by a familiar, scowling face. "Ah, Agent Donovan," Sherlock greeted with clearly false cordiality, the beginnings of a smirk crossing his face, "how lovely to see you. And how is dearest Anderson?"

"How the hell should I know?" she huffed. "We're not together, Freak."

He tutted. "You really should use a better concealer. Or at least one that can successfully cover up his bite marks on your throat."

John cleared his throat and looked determinedly at his shoes. He did not need those pointed out to him, thanks very much. The mental images they brought forth were psychologically traumatizing, to say the least.

Donovan blushed a vibrant hue and looked away from Sherlock, her eyes landing on one Dr. Watson. "You, you're the normal one, right?"

John had no idea where this might be going. "Er..."

"I'd like to introduce you to someone." She jerked her chin towards the direction of the stairs inside, beckoning the detective and his blogger forward.

The building, Sherlock noted, was remarkably like Mrs. Hudson's-main floor, with stairs leading up to the flat where the victim lay.

...Or rather, didn't lay. "Good god," John murmured upon the trio reaching the crime scene.

The victim, male, was hanging by his hands, which were tied to the ceiling fan in the center of the living room. The body was rotating slightly still, which Sherlock almost found comical. Almost.

"...He's been-" John began.

"Skinned," Sherlock finished, his eyes darting round the room until they alighted on Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was conversing with a coroner's assistant in a corner of the space. "Lestrade, stop thinking so loudly, or I will ask you to leave."

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock," Lestrade snapped, obviously reaching his wit's end. "You have five minutes, you hear?"

Sherlock sniffed in response and whipped out his pocket magnifier, stalking closer to the body at the center of the living area.

John, noticing that Sherlock would likely be oblivious to anyone and anything else for the next few minutes, resigned himself to staring at the wall opposite. He was vaguely aware of Donovan calling out to someone across the room, and suddenly someone was standing in John's field of vision.

"Doctor Watson, meet Eric Phillips," Donovan introduced. John focused on the person in front of him.

It was the coroner's assistant Lestrade had been conversing with moments ago. Taller than average. Tanned. Dark hair. Light eyes. Sparkling white, Hollywood teeth. "Hey there," the man greeted John in a pleasant tenor.

Oh, an American. "Hello." John offered his hand to shake. Eric held on a bit longer than necessary, his eyes quickly running down John's body before making eye contact again.

"So you're a doctor, huh?" said Eric. "You definitely don't look like a cop, so what're you doing at a crime scene like this?"

"He's Fr-Mr. Holmes' PA," Donovan chimed in before going over to talk to Lestrade.

"Colleague," John corrected. He could almost hear Sherlock's eye-roll.

"Colleague. Cool. So you two are just, like, friends?" Eric asked. John felt a strange, warm sensation begin to buzz somewhere in his gut. The assistant's gaze was certainly very...appreciative. He was being flirted with. When was the last time this had happened? John honestly couldn't remember.

"Just friends," he confirmed.

Eric smiled. "Great. What kind of doctor are you?"

"An army doctor."

"Really?" The coroner's assistant's eyes sparkled. "You, military? I never would've guessed," he said teasingly, eying John's straight posture and immaculate haircut.

John grinned, holding himself a little straighter. "Well, you know what they say about old habits."

"Ha, yeah. So listen..." Eric stepped closer to John, until John had to look up to meet the taller man's eyes. "I was wondering...would you like to go get a coffee or something? After my shift ends, I mean."

John saw Sherlock's back go rigid but thought nothing of it. He was going to say yes. Why the hell not? Eric was nice, outgoing, and seemed smart enough. "Oh, well-"

"No," came a voice from behind him ringing with finality. John turned around to see Sherlock glaring imperiously at Eric, barely concealed distaste splashed across his face. "While John clearly admires your forwardness, he and I are far too busy to engage in social trivialities. Besides-" Sherlock's gaze raked across the assistant's form without mercy, "a man who lives with and verbally abuses his sister is hardly a man that John needs to get to know on an intimate level."

Eric gaped in shock, which quickly turned to anger. "Now wait just one second, you prissy little-"

"Come, John," Sherlock interrupted, "we're leaving. Lestrade," he called over to the detective inspector, "I'll text you my findings." And with a turn of his heel and a swish of his coat, he was out the door.

John cleared his throat. "Well..."

Eric grimaced. "I'd better get the body down now."

"Right, very good. I'd better, uh, go after Sherlock."

"Yeah, you do that."

John ducked his head. "Sorry about him. He's always like that."

"Huh. Is he your boyfriend? Most 'colleagues' aren't that defensive." Eric grinned ruefully.

John blinked. "No, no he isn't. Why do people always assume we're together?"

Eric sighed. "I think it has to do with the way he looks at you." He waved goodbye and turned to examine the body, about which John had completely forgotten.

Without another word, John turned and left the building.

~.~.~

The cab ride back to the flat was, needless to say, uncomfortable. Sherlock's eyes were like icy drillbits as they bore into John, who refused to make eye contact with the consulting detective. Not a word was said. Like I said, uncomfortable. John felt like his skin was about to burst into flame, so intense was the other man's glower. John intended to give Sherlock a stern talking-to when they got home, but for now, he didn't want the cabbie to overhear.

When they arrived at 221B, John paid the fare and got out of the cab, followed closely by his companion. The two remained silent as they went through the door, up the stairs, and into the flat.

The second the door closed, Sherlock, for lack of a better word, pounced.

Moving like greased lightning, Sherlock grabbed John's wrists and slammed him against the nearest wall, pinning the shorter man's hands above him and even going so far as standing on John's toes so he couldn't kick him. John had barely gotten out a "What the fuck?" before this turn of events, and now that he was pinned, began to struggle.

Clearly he had underestimated the wiry strength in Sherlock's body, because he could only wriggle a little, in a quite futile manner. He was successfully pinned. Shit. He looked up at Sherlock, only to find that his eyes were piercing him once more.

"Sherlock," he began, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground, "What's going on?"

Sherlock let out a short bark of a laugh. "As always, you see but do not observe, John. Think. Why would I be upset?"

John was suddenly hyperaware that Sherlock's body was firmly pressed against his, chest to chest. "Er..." he wracked his brain.

Oh. Oh! "You didn't like Eric?"

Sherlock made a low, rumbling sound in his throat that was reminiscent of a growl. "Don't say that imbecile's name," he snapped waspishly. "Mine is the only name you should say, the only name you should care about."

Good lord, this man was full of himself. If the situation wasn't so tense, John would've rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Sherlock. Why didn't you like Er-the coroner's assistant?"

"Like I said, think."

John really had no idea; he was used to Sherlock being in a strop for no apparent reason, the git. "Because he somehow accidentally contaminated the crime scene?"

"No."

"Because he's an American?" the doctor hazarded.

"Really, John, your deductive capabilities seem to be slipping." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Perhaps you require a hint at the reason for my frustration."

"I don't like where this is going, Sherlock."

"Too damn bad," the consulting detective snarled. And then his mouth came down on John's. Rather forcefully.

. . .

. . . .

_Oh_. It clicked in John's brain as he stared at the taller man, who was looking right back with those penetrating, steely eyes. Sherlock was jealous.

Sherlock bleeding Holmes was _jealous_.

"Waitwaitwait," John gasped, turning his face sharply to the side, his face bright red. Sherlock, undaunted, merely began attacking his right ear with the same fervence. "You're mad because I flirted with someone?"

"Obviously." Sherlock punctuated this with a firm nip at John's earlobe, causing the smaller man to yelp and unintentionally buck against his flatmate. Bloody hell. Not gay, not gay, not gay.

Well, fuck, he was half-hard already.

"But w-w-why?" the blogger stammered as he felt Sherlock's tongue dip very suggestively into his ear. "What's your problem?"

Sherlock stilled in his ministrations immediately, and a look of anger such as John had never seen adorned his face when they made eye contact once more. "That tart obviously ignored the fact that you are clearly spoken for. Well..." He transferred both of John's wrists to just one of his hands, while the other dropped and toyed with John's belt buckle. John felt Sherlock's curls brush his cheek as he bent to whisper in the shorter man's ear. "I'll just have to mark my territory more thoroughly from now on." He ended his rumbling statement with a chaste kiss at the corner of John's mouth.

And just like that, Sherlock stepped back completely.

John was at a loss. He really was. What the devil just happened? Was that it?

"Of course I'm not finished, John," Sherlock stated briskly (_There he goes again with the mind reading_, thought John), shucking his coat and tossing it on the nearest chair. "This is just beginning."

"Sorry, what's beginning?"

The dark-haired man stepped closer to John until their chests were again touching. Sherlock's small grin from a few seconds ago turned predatory; now that he was closer, John could see that Sherlock's pupils were blown wide with desire. His probably were as well. "The _game_, John. It's just beginning."

John gulped.

**A/N: I have a friend named Erik Phillips (see that? I changed his name by one letter!) who looks very much like the man with whom John flirts. I love him. Stay tuned for chapter two, and reviewreviewreview!**

**Luvs~**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock slowly began walking towards his bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing in his wake. Scarf near the couch, shoes kicked off seconds later, socks slipped off and thrown carelessly behind him, shirt dropped on the floor near the kitchen, and, finally, trousers slipped down in the doorway of the bedroom.

John didn't know whether to thank God or curse Him.

There were, he figured, two options. He could _pretend_ like Sherlock wasn't seducing him, promising him a night of pleasure that would likely never be rivaled by a night with anyone else. He could _pretend_ that, despite his previous protests, he wasn't ridiculously attracted to his lanky cohort. He could leave the flat, give Sherlock some time to cool down, and later, pretend that the attack had never happened. Awkward, to be sure.

Or.

Or he could walk into Sherlock's bedroom, where he would spend an evening pleasuring and being pleasured by the most intelligent, infuriating, sensual, beautiful man he had ever had the good fortune of meeting.

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out which path John invariably chose.

As he cautiously walked through the door (wary of another pouncing), John heard a low chuckle to his left. There, in the low light of the lamp, was his flatmate, lying on his bed, wearing nothing but his charcoal grey boxer briefs and a sly grin. "Took you long enough," he commented in his sultry baritone.

Oh, shit. John's breath hitched. Sherlock had done that thing with his voice again. That thing where it went so low that it almost sounded like a growl. If John had to liken the consulting detective to an animal, he would liken Sherlock to a panther, all sleek lines and pouncing and dark hair and growling voice and hungry eyes and dear God he was about to lose his cool. Which, he supposed, was Sherlock's ultimate goal, the sexy bastard.

John noticed that Sherlock's hands were behind his head in a leisurely manner. "Well?" Sherlock drawled.

"Well, what?"

"This won't exactly work if you're clothed, Doctor Watson." He was staring at John expectantly, the smirk never leaving his face.

Ah, so that's what he wants, thought John, slipping off his jacket. He'd never made a big fuss about taking off his clothes before, so he didn't see how stripping could be seen as erotic. In fact, the prospect of Sherlock watching him undress seemed rather uncomfortable to John. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible, he supposed, and without further ago, pulled his jumper up and off. It fell to the floor with a soft thump. Already slightly embarrassed, John met Sherlock's eyes. He was surprised by what he saw.

Sherlock's gaze was incredibly intent as it fixed on John's hands, which were beginning to unbutton his shirt. The slender man's mouth was slightly open now, the smirk gone and replaced with a look of complete concentration. Instead of finding the intensity of Sherlock's attention unsettling, John found it to be rather flattering, and his heart did a strange little fluttery thing. He popped the first button. Then another. And another.

After kicking off shoes and socks, followed quickly by his trousers, John stood in his rather embarrassingly red pants, hands at his sides (because really, where else would he put them?), gaze boring a hole in the bedpost. Is this the part where I get on the bed? John thought, feeling a bit discombobulated. I seem to've forgotten how to have sex. Jesus Christ, I'm about to have sex with my best friend.

"You're thinking far too much, John," came Sherlock's low rumble. John jumped at the sound of his name. Sherlock sat up. "Come up here," he said - it sounded more like an order. And if a soldier like John didn't follow orders, where would England be? So up he went, kneeling in front of his gorgeous flatmate. And since it was John's turn to initiate something, he took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him, molding their lips together.

John had learned from previous experiences with women that kissing was nice, snogging was very nice, and buggering was great. Therefore when John kissed Sherlock properly - because that hard and forceful first kiss of theirs didn't really count in his mind - he expected it to be nice, nothing more, nothing less. But this.

This was a little bit shocking.

Immediately John felt a jolting warmth shoot straight from the point of contact of their kiss to his belly, curling low in his abdomen, and he let out a shaky little moan. Kissing Sherlock was like...was like being struck by lightning, only wetter. When Sherlock bit John's lower lip, making the other man gasp, the detective's tongue invaded his mouth and now John could really feel the electricity flowing. As Sherlock playfully explored the hot cavern of his mouth, John was in too much of a daze to even think of fighting for dominance as he released a few quiet whimpers. His senses were overloaded with too much data as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's neck, pulling them closer with a breathy exhale. Toomuchtoomuch. John was already painfully aroused, and just from snogging. There was no way he'd be able to last.

He then became aware that Sherlock was slowly pulling him forwards - without breaking the kiss, miraculously enough - until they were lying down, Sherlock's curly-haired head resting against the pillows as John hovered above him, resting his weight on his elbows. After a few more minutes of heated snogging, John's lips left Sherlock's and wended their way down his chin and onto his throat, making the taller man mewl like a kitten. John got a thin, drawn-out whine when he began to suck on the sensitive skin, and one of his hands came up to toy with a pert nipple. "G-good God," Sherlock breathed, arching up into John reflexively at the stimulation, hands gravitating downwards to grasp at John's firm arse. John grunted his approval and twisted Sherlock's nipple, making the consulting detective yelp and arch again.

"Nope, just me," John muttered cheekily, grazing the other man's nipple with his teeth. Sherlock jerked and made a sort of keening noise.

"Jaaaaawn." Sherlock's voice was the sound of pure sex. "Too much clothing."

"Oh, right." Abandoning his ministrations for the moment, John shifted downwards, trailing his lips down his companion's little path of hair that started below his navel and ran underneath his briefs. John toyed with the waistband, dropping feather-light brushes of lips on Sherlock's lower stomach, causing the muscles there to clench and tremble from the titillation and the taller man to groan and grasp the bedsheets with his long hands. Feeling like he had tortured the man below him enough, John finally lifted the waistband down, exposing Sherlock's erect member to the air.

It was, John saw, quite beautiful, as these things go. Sherlock's manhood was long and slender, just like him, flushed with arousal. John looked up to see that his lover's face was turning pink, the blush travelling down to his chest as he breathed heavily. Never having done this before, but knowing what he himself had liked on the receiving end, John gave the tip of Sherlock's leaking head an experimental lick using the flat of his tongue. Sherlock cried out a string of expletives that would've made a sailor cringe; John just grinned and continued in his task.

He suckled on the sensitive skin, slowly taking more into his mouth, until the tip of his lover's prick was nestled at the back of his throat. He massaged what couldn't fit into his mouth with his left hand - for his right was holding down Sherlock's hips, as the consulting detective reflexively kept trying to buck upwards. John swirled his tongue around the taller man's erection, dropping his left hand to play with Sherlock's sac, at which point Sherlock's groans became noticeably high-pitched and breathless. John grinned and began to suck, nearly hollowing his cheeks. Sherlock, for lack of a better word, choked. John chuckled around Sherlock. If this was how the younger man would always react to fellatio, then he could definitely get used to this.

It was clear that Sherlock was about to lose it. "J-john," he gasped, "I'm about to -"

John increased the pressure, hand gravitating back to Sherlock's prick to squeeze the base as he sucked even harder. He hummed around Sherlock, and with a shout, the man came hard, hands clenched in John's hair. John felt the warm liquid spurt down his throat, tasting a bit sweet (Sherlock, whenever he _did_ eat, craved sweets) and leaving a slightly odd aftertaste; it wasn't too bad, so John swallowed all of it - though, since Sherlock had likely gone without sex for some time, there was a considerable amount.

The doctor released Sherlock's member, moving upwards to kiss his cohort and opening his mouth so Sherlock could taste his own essence. "Do you want to keep going?" he murmured against his lips. Sherlock was already nodding, his cheeks stained vermilion.

John kissed him once more, then bent over the side of the bed to retrieve his jacket. Inside one of the pockets was a small bottle of hand lotion which John occasionally used, as the gloves from the surgery tended to make his hands dry. Slicking up three fingers, he circled Sherlock's entrance and then slowly, ever so slowly, pushed one in.

Sherlock was still a bit languid from his orgasm, so it slipped in with barely a grunt from him. John quickly inserted another, at which point his lanky counterpart groaned softly and clenched down slightly on John's fingers. John winced, not from pain, but because he was imagining something else of his other than fingers being enveloped by Sherlock's tight warmth. Fuckity fuck. Dead babies. Anderson naked. The Americans winning FIFA. Don't come, you great oaf. John refocused after stifling what could have been rather embarrassung, putting all his attention into preparing his lover as best he could.

When he was scissoring three digits and Sherlock was thrusting his hips down on them while moaning like a wanton whore, his erection fully stiff once more and leaking pearly drops of precome, John figured he was ready, and scrambled to get a condom from his wallet (he never thought he'd use it, but then again, he'd never had an opportunity such as this).

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "No, John," he rasped, "I want to - I want to feel you."

"But-"

"I'm a virgin and you're clean. Don't ask how I know that - you cut yourself while shaving the morning after a night with some woman, and I was curious. I feel no remorse, so don't be tedious and try to make me apologise."

John:s brain stopped working. "You're a _what_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, somehow seeming condescending while simultaneously looking utterly wrecked. "As virginal as the freshly driven snow," he drawled. "Obviously. Don't you remember what Mycroft said in Buckingham Palace? He is literally always watching, since he loves to take the 'big brother' role to a ridiculous level. Now continue, please."

"Er...pardon?" John bleated. After hearing Sherlock's latest piece of news, so much blood had pooled in his groin that he was rather lightheaded.

"Are. You. Going. To. Fuck. Me?" Sherlock said in precise, even tones.

John moaned, regaining his thoughts. "Oh, _God_ yes." He clambered back up over the consulting detective, positioning his cock at the taller man's entrance. Leaning down and capturing Sherlock's lips with his, John slowly began to push in.

Sweet baby Jesus. As John pushed deeper, he could feel Sherlock's muscles fluttering around him, adjusting to his girth as Sherlock moaned something that sounded like "nnnggggh" into John's open mouth, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. Seeing the tears, John panicked and halted immediately. "Are you all right? Should I stop?" He didn't want to hurt him.

Sherlock hissed at the sudden loss of movement. "Why the hell should you stop? I'm right as rain. Go on, before I flip us over and do it myself."

John chuckled. "Maybe next time." And without further ado, he pushed the rest of himself inside in one powerful thrust until he was balls deep. Sherlock shouted louder than he ever had before, making John feel a bit sorry for Mrs. Hudson downstairs - the sound had no doubt woken her up.

Neither of them lasted for long; Sherlock was too inexperienced and John was so tightly wound that orgasm came quickly. Sherlock came first, for the second time that night, groaning softly as he did so, his eyes clenched shut in ecstasy. Feeling the other man's muscles contract around him, John thrust twice more and then was hurled from the precipice with a gutteral moan that sounded quite like Sherlock's name. Grabbing his pants from the floor, John cleaned himself and his lover up a little, then lay down beside Sherlock, whose eyes were at half-mast and glazed as he breathed heavily, a dopey grin on his face.

"That," he proclaimed laconically, "was the best shag I've ever had."

John snort turned into a chuckle. "It was the _only_ shag you've ever had, love - you have no basis for comparison. But I can honestly say that that was one of the best fucks I've ever had."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, feigning awe, "you were satisfied with the whole two minutes?" His eyes sparkled with mischievous mirth as his perfect cupid's bow quirked upward.

John slapped Sherlock lightly on the arse. "You're a bit cheeky for someone who's just received the shag of his life. How about going to sleep for once?" John was ready to cuddle and get some sleep, and therefore snuggled down beneath the duvet. He closed his eyes, feeling quite warm and ensconced, waiting for Sherlock to curl up to him beneath the covers.

What he didn't expect was moist breath at his ear and a pair of spidery hands beginning to wander up to his neck and caress it. "Oh, dearest John," Sherlock panther-growled (John felt a stirring in his groin, he noticed with put-upon resignation), "whatever made you think that we were _finished_?" He shifted to straddle John's waist, beginning to mouth at the doctor's neck.

John grunted, simultaneously irked and pleased. "How the hell am I going to be able to keep up with you?"

"Simple. We shall build up stamina, Doctor. Now..." The curly-haired detective began to nuzzle and nip and suck on John's neck like some sort of sexy vampire (God, John just imagined Sherlock with red eyes and fangs and became hard within record time). "Let's see what I can do to lay my claim."

~Epilogue~

Sherlock's marks on John -they were absolutely _everywhere_ - were so noticeable and vivid that they lasted for a good two and a half weeks, which made things at the Yard a bit awkward for John. Not for Sherlock, though, who was strutting around like he'd just found the cure for the common cold, or something as equally fantastic; he'd also, much to John's dismay, taken a liking to wrapping his arm round John's waist or kissing him on the cheek at crime scenes, just in case any of the policemen or coroners were feeling flirty. He'd also taken a liking to whispering dirty promises in John's ear when no one was looking, but John didn't feel like complaining about that.

End~

**Well, that was a bit difficult to write, seeing as how I'm an asexual fenale -laughs- But I just love Johnlock so so much. The FEELS~ Hope you enjoyed this little two-shot! I'd love a review or ninety. Live long and prosper!**


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